_Ind._ You may; but 'twill not be your best advice: 'Twill only give me pains of writing twice. You know you must obey me, soon or late: Why should you vainly struggle with your fate? _Arim._ I thank thee, heaven, thou hast been wondrous kind! Why am I thus to slavery designed, And yet am cheated with a freeborn mind? Or make thy orders with my reason suit, Or let me live by sense a glorious brute-- [_She frowns._ You frown, and I obey with speed, before That dreadful sentence comes, _See me no more:_ See me no more! that sound, methinks, I hear Like the last trumpet thundering in my ear. _Enter_ SOLYMAN. _Solym._ The princess Melesinda, bathed in tears, And tossed alternately with hopes and fears, If your affairs such leisure can afford, Would learn from you the fortunes of her lord. _Arim._ Tell her, that I some certainty may bring, I go this minute to attend the king. _Ind._ This lonely turtle I desire to see: Grief, though not cured, is eased by company. _Arim._ [_To_ SOLYM.] Say, if she please, she hither may repair, And breathe the freshness of the open air. [_Exit_ SOLYM. _Ind._ Poor princess! how I pity her estate, Wrapt in the ruins of her husband's fate! She mourned Morat should in rebellion rise; Yet he offends, and she's the sacrifice. _Arim._ Not knowing his design, at court she staid; 'Till, by command, close prisoner she was made. Since when, Her chains with Roman constancy she bore, But that, perhaps, an Indian wife's is more. _Ind._ Go, bring her comfort; leave me here alone. _Arim._ My love must still he in obedience shown. [_Exit_ ARIM. _Enter_ MELESINDA, _led by_ SOLYMAN, _who retires afterwards._ _Ind._ When graceful sorrow in her pomp appears, Sure she is dressed in Melesinda's tears. Your head reclined, (as hiding grief from view) Droops, like a rose, surcharged with morning dew. _Mel._ Can flowers but droop in absence of the sun, Which waked their sweets? And mine, alas! is gone. But you the noblest charity express: For they, who shine in courts, still shun distress. _Ind._ Distressed myself, like you, confined, I live: And, therefore, can compassion take and give. We're both love's captives, but with fate so cross, One must be happy by the other's loss. Morat, or Aureng-Zebe, must fall this day. _Mel._ Too truly Tamerlane's successors they; Each thinks a world too little for his sway. Could you and I the same pretences bring, Mankind should with more ease receive a king: I would to you the narrow world resign, And want no empire while Morat was mine. _Ind._ Wished freedom, I presage, you soon will find; If heaven be just, and be to virtue kind. _Mel._ Quite otherwise my mind foretels my fate: Short is my life, and that unfortunate. Yet should I not complain, would heaven afford Some little time, ere death, to see my lord.